The final photo shows two of the kids at the Westwood Light as they watch Nell melt a single crayon over a large circular canvas. She was drawing a picture with the wax from above—bumpy and wormy-looking, though the photo doesn’t capture the painting; it focuses solely on Nell, the care she takes with the crayon, and the unfiltered fascination in the children’s faces. I made this photo black and white, except for the deep, rich green color of the melting crayon in her hand. I snapped this shot candid-style, just like the four others. The click was so quiet, she didn’t even notice, and the moment wasn’t ruined. It was the first time she took me to see the kids at Westwood Light.
“She is here,” Dmitri says thoughtfully, studying that last photo. “Well, in a way.”
“In a way,” I agree, somewhat pained.
“Ugh,” comes a voice from behind.
I turn, surprised to find Sam standing there with Tomas a few steps behind her. Sam’s wearing an uncharacteristic olive-colored gown, her hair dark and touching her shoulders, curled a bit at the ends. And to ruin the whole bombshell thing she’s got going on, her big ugly black-rimmed glasses cover half her face, enlarging her eyes in an oddly chic-geek sort of way. Tomas, in contrast, just looks pure geek in a pair of jeans and an oversized white polo with a big Atari joystick on the front. Despite him being a total dud of a guy, I gotta give him props for the old-school gamer thing going on with his shirt.
“Ugh?” I retort teasingly. “It’s that bad?”
“I’m just not used to seeing myself.” She smirks unpleasantly at the second photograph, then tilts her head. “I look annoyed.”
“You are annoyed,” Tomas puts in.
“I am annoyed,” she agrees, looking like a cat who’s folded her ears.
Dmitri shuffles a bit. “You look great, though. I mean …” He clears his throat and points at the photograph. “I’m kinda wondering what note you were hearing when the pic was taken.”
“A wrong one,” she groans.
Dmitri chuckles at that. “No such thing as a wrong note.”
She lifts a blunt, tired eyebrow. “Then I guess there’s no such thing as grammar, punctuation, or spelling.”
His eyes flash wide. “Touché.”
The next moment, Dessie and Clayton find us. “Oh my god, you guys. Did you see the Klangburg Dome? It’s an acrylic painting of the whole university, imagined in a futuristic setting, and the detail put into every little … Oh.” She interrupts herself, her eyes finding my photos. Particularly, the fourth one. “That’s me,” she says and signs, tapping Clayton on the chest as she does so.
He grins, drawing up to her backside and wrapping her in his arms. “And me,” he mumbles into her neck, pointing at the third photo, “as I watched you onstage.”
“Brant, these are beautiful,” says Dessie.
I smile and offer the pair of them an appreciative nod. “Thanks so much, guys.” Then, when Clayton’s gaze meets mine, I put a flat hand to the front of my chin and let it fall outward—the sign for thank you.
He grins approvingly, returning the gesture.
I resolve right now to learn more signs other than the ones for “Coke” and “penis” and “poop”.
We move around the gallery, observing the other pieces that were selected. Of course the first one we visit is the Klangburg Dome, which really is pretty cool and just as Dessie described it. Some of the other pieces, however, leave me squinting my eyes in confusion. One piece seems to be a grey canvas with a large pale, greyish circle painted in the middle. A few tiny out-of-place bright red specks dress the corner of the painting. It’s called The Stain.
There’s a clay sculpture that looks like a big horseshoe with a nose and eyes peering out in mock surprise. It’s all a rusted, burnt orange color, and the piece is titled Amateur.
Tiny wires hold up a sculpture that hangs in separate pieces, yet in their exact positioning, if viewed from the right angle, it looks like a tesseract—which Dmitri explains is like a four-dimensional version of a cube … or something. When you walk around the structure and view it from the side, it looks completely flat. The work is called Honesty.
“One of these days,” Dmitri muses to me, “you’ll have a whole room full of your photos, and a bunch of old men and women with their fat wallets are gonna fight over who gets to purchase your work.”
“Yeah,” I agree mockingly, “and my photos will have names like Benevolent Blueberry … or Pajama Pants … or Tesseract.” I sputter, trying my best to suppress a laugh. “Nell warned me that the art world can be kinda pretentious, but … damn, I’ve never quite noticed …”